Best Rills Poems
A view of the ragged woodland from
The window:-
Slender branched trees that shed
From high above to low below;
The faint, mauven peaks
Smattered with barely visible
Scatterings of drifted snow;
Across the matted undergrowth
A bronzed carpet of copper coloured
Leaves
Whose rusting hue,
Momentarily ignited by stray
Sunbeams weakly smouldering,
Briefly refurbished -
Deceives with all the colours of a
Rainbow...
From vibrant red through to shy
Hints of indigo;
Those vague outlines indicating
Receding hills;
Here, arising, long ago, every waking
Dawning,
The creaking structures
Of groaning and imposing mills;
Soon a slow thawing that quickly
Spills
Into the trickling replenishments
Of many gushing and silvery little
Rills.
Enchantment gripped me!
And I found myself wistfully
Thinking...
Maybe, perhaps, maybe, somewhere,
Just behind where the great
Flattening Orb
Is now rapidly shrinking,
That I might, by perchance, find,
If I did so hope to bravely dare,
To happen upon a hidden and
Sedentary way of life up there?
That, forgotten, has turned its
Back on the social conflicts
Plagued by the curses of ingrained
Vice;
Encumbering a soul with its petty
Squabblings,
Imposing upon with demands and
Avarice...
When placing unnecessary burdens
On a honest bodies daily call
Of grinding toil and wearisome
Strife!
And still stood,
With hands outstretched upon the
Painted sill,
At the waist half-bent,
Now troubled by quiet mutterings
In an inexplicable sorts
Of self-imposed discontent,
My staid consciousness almost
Unawares,
As, momentarily distracted,
I hesitated, and, unseeing,
Inattentively stared...
Until...
A ragged chapter of cawing Daws,
Loudly jabbering overhead,
Suddenly wheeled -
And upwardly soared!
Whereupon, in murderous haste,
Awkwardly fled
When laboriously stealing away
Back inside the stubbled fields...
Thus causing me to slowly straighten;
Whilst, with a singular heartfelt pang,
Liken a moorland mist slowly rolling
Over
That indivisibly conceals...
Drew shut the sullen curtains, which,
Heavily embroidered with indeterminate
finality,
Dejectedly hang...
Each draped aside of the cold
Reveals.
When fields gleam aureate and song birds sing
and transient stars in clusters scintillate,
when sweet perennials are coaxed by spring
to blossom forth, he comes with sprightly gait.
He wends his way along the mountain trails
past opalescent rush of streams and rills,
goat-footed, on the paths that ribbon dales
and wind around and up and down small hills.
Then nymphs appear as, through the woods, he trips
to flower-smitten meadows. Fancy-free,
he leads them with his reed held to his lips,
till blithely they embrace his rhapsody.
So hear the music; watch the wood nymphs spin. . .
Then captured by sheer merriment, join in!
For Nathan A.'s ANY POEM GOES Poetry Contest
~ My favorite Thanksgiving memory was, quite simply, a walk at my grandparents house - I'll never forget how nature spoke to me that day about what is truly important, what I'm most thankful for. ~
The snowflakes cling so softly to my eyes
Each one a sparkling gem of frosted lace
Their fluttered flights like silver butterflies
Released by heaven in uncommon grace
To melt upon my lashes, warm, and trace
Their damp demise as rills upon my face
I wind my way thru swaying evergreen
That dip their limbs to bow a silent plea
Like Currier and Ives, they paint a scene
Of lofty grand cathedrals, soaring free
A vault of stars to crown each regal tree
While high above an owl questions me
I wonder if, like me, he haunts the night
Divining purpose deep within the wood
So grateful for the gifts within his sight
And all that heaven brings us that is good
In that, we forge a blessed brotherhood
Content to cherish living, as we should
Thanksgiving weaves the frigid winds at hand
To bring us both this winter wonderland.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Thanksgiving Memory" Poetry Contest, Regina Riddle, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Winter Wonderland" Poetry Contest, Emile Pinet, Judge & Sponsor.
~ This is an "Urban Sonnet", a form created by Laura Loo, a poet here at Poetry Soup. ~
I'm named a willow tree and live in grace,
the whole of me distinctive in its shape.
My elegance well suits this lush landscape
of hillocks flung across the field I face. . .
and gentle rills meander through this place.
In spring I don a long virescent cape
comprised of many supple arms that drape
to earth and, with Eve’s shadows, interlace.
Oh, countless times Sun’s flecked my every leaf
and Sky distilled her stars as night would creep.
Young lovers, though, have fled, their time so brief.
They used to spread a cloth to eat; then sleep
beneath me in my shade. They knew no grief. . .
Not privy to their destiny, I weep.
It was around mid April
The weather almost fair.
The song of nature calling
Came flowing through the air.
The splendour of the mountains,
Their charm could not resist
And even more enchanting
When shrouded in the mist.
The hues, the shades and fragrance
The glades, the woods and rills
The lake serene and peaceful,
The undulating hills....
The sight – so captivating
How could my heart not melt!
Spiritual and romantic;
I know how Wordsworth felt.
* * * * *
Across the miles I miss the beauty
Of the wealth I left behind,
But at least there are the memories
In the corners of my mind.
------------------------------------------
[Pub. PS: It’s Poetry: An anthology of contemporary poetry
from around the world 2020]
Contest: Any Poem Written before joining PoetrySoup
Sponsor: Poet Destroyer A
Placed 2nd
Contest: In the style of my fav poet
Sponsor: The Seeker
Placed 4th
On my walk around the green meadow
in the sun splattered mesmeric mornings,
I used to see an old lady of the neighborhood,
sitting straight like a lone statue of cold stone
on the road-side bench I always crossed.
The golden stream of surging sunbeam
cascaded down the engraved web of rills
on her septuagenarian fragile face.
She would raise her thin ivory hands
from the recess of reclined lap unmoved,
flail in frail gesture in the scented air,
murmuring ‘good morning’ perhaps,
I could hardly hear in the rustle of leaves,
but my long day waited to begin
with the shining dawn of her smile,
drenching me in the silent shower of joy.
I still walk as the senile sun rises everyday,
but its searching rays saddened like me,
don’t find the lady on the bench,
but she walks smiling with me,
down the memory lane.
Written : March 22, 2020
July 23, 2022
Contest : 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 9
Sponsored by : Mark Toney
taciturn springs rising
from within the quarry
of deep earth's wisdom
urging lyrical waters to transpose
while held like singing seas of living reveries
of history and infinity
misting to meld with rainfall dreams
Falling like ancient messages
into the orchard of molecular landscapes
drawn to penetrate its legacy
embedded in the rockeries and rills
blanketing the groves of dirt and ferns
teeming in the arcadian oasis
feeding feast or famine
flourishing the solicitude of springtime
in spider spun dreams
of longings in ancient oaks
merging with the ebb of shedding sycamores
in salted seas teeming and exalting
the rhetoric of existence
in musing opaque vapors
mingling into pervasive clouds
bleeding life
cached in the creche
of pastoral beginnings
of everlasting eddies
watering the garden of dreams
April 22, 2020
Rewritten: October 3, 2020
Your Best Free Verse 2020
Sponsored by John Hamilton
I see pretty flowers
in gardens and bowers
Vivid gold daffodils
line the banks of deep rills
Fledgling chicks spread their wings
listen as songbirds sings
Little lambs play in fields
I love all that spring yields
Theme 2 nature inspired
Alexandrine - Modified Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart
Checked with how many syllables
03/23/20
August-5- 2026
Contest- The Pensive Poet Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Constance La France
~PLACED FIRST~
"A poet sees things which others seem to ignore and stores up his thoughts and impressions in the casket of verse, treasuring them as valuables that Time can't steal"~ By Poet
Alone, when I sit in my room in pensive mood,
Thoughts flit across my mind in endless succession.
They erupt out slicing time and space,
And flow in disarray, in a jumbled mass.
Then my facile pen starts moving quickly,
Gathering my thoughts in reflective refrain.
Like waves beating madly across the shoreline,
Emotions flow out, my mind no longer can contain.
On flipping through the pages of my life,
Deep nostalgia overwhelms me.
Like falling petals, as years hastily pass,
I long for the past when my days were quite glossy.
My mind wanders to distant memories dear,
And I wish to preserve what time has stolen.
So, I scribble my thoughts on the sheet in hand
To traverse through bygone times over again.
In my silence, I hear footsteps of the past
And see my dear ones as shadows fading out.
My parents who are no more there to care,
Gleam before, leaving my eyes misty.
I am on a sacred mission~
To stitch together broken memories and moments
And build a bridge between past and present.
My poems, l hope will serve as a window
That I can open and close at will.
Only in silence l can behold scenes,
That others miss out in diverse distractions.
The more I grow silent, the more I can see and hear.
I get ensnared by the breathtaking view of a sunset
The serenade of nocturnal birds,
The beauty of blooms and meadows wide and green,
The vastness of the sapphire sky -
Where rainbows arch after a drizzle
Or stars twinkle at a cloudless night.
Rills as they murmur and cataracts as they roar,
Fall on my ears as dulcet music of the cosmic band.
I wish to recall such sights and sounds
That once I looked on with a casual glance,
And fell like grains of sand funneled through the hour glass,
Later forsaken with no effort to keep or brush them up.
I wish to preserve them in poetry’s fragile art~
A craft sharpened and perfected in pensive mood.
So, time wouldn’t steal them away from my memory.
I strive to make my verses a mirror reflecting life.
Two sonnets for May, and my muse
The fires are lit, my lover, and the hills
are flickering with little points of light
The sun is set, and deep within the rills
the seeds of stars are littering the night
The smoke is rising, lover, rising high
in winding spires of ribbons in the air
and in the rivers where the willows cry
and on the leys the ancient druids dare
to walk, the chalk is glowing. I know you
will never leap the Beltane fires with me
or rise on one May morning in the dew
beside me, spellbound by my poetry
Or so it seems. But oh, my lover, how
the blossom burns, so brightly on the bough
The maypole’s up, my lover, on the green
its willow ribbons flutter in the breeze
I would you be my king, and I your queen
for one night only, here beneath the trees
The hawthorn froths, my lover, in the hedge
the buds are bursting, birds are nesting high
yet still you fly, my hawk, above the edge
of some cold mountain way up in the sky
Come down, or are you wary that a flame
might fall within your feathers, or a spark
ignite your heart, or god forbid, you came
to want to stay beside me in the dark
It’s so, it seems. But see, my lover, now
the blossom burning brighter on the bough
© Gail Foster 1st May 2018
Let’s fly to the celestial fiesta of the cherry blossom,
In the North Eastern Region of Shillong, named, “The Scotland of the East,
The abode of the cloud,” in the lush mesa of the magnetic Meghalaya!
The wheezing Pine forest of the whispering waterfalls in the Khasi hills,
is bustling with the nature’s fairytale of pink, white and ivory!
As far as the eyes can see, the rolling tableland is ringing, ridden by the radiant petals of cherries!
Neither Japan, nor Paris, a mere remote region of Indian plateau,
Glowing in nature’s sublime glory of pellucid picturesque pinks!
Nicknamed, Prunus Cerasoides, the cherry blossoms,
a delightful boon of Himalayas,
are blooming profusely in the magical
verdant highland of the East Khasi hills!
The November is rippling with
moonlit music, plethora of flamboyant folk dances,
pageants, stalls to cater to the globetrotters’ penchant for the ethnicity
of the fur-flung region’s tribes’ cuisines, wine, arts and cryptic crafts!
Such bedazzling is the serenity of the panaromic platonic plateau,
As folks of the vicinity, are traversing despite the rampant pandemic,
to glimpse the shangri la of the richest biome of the floral magical lane!
The resonating frolic of the chirping and twittering from the cheerful cherry bushes
are teeming with the twirling bliss, intoning,
in winters whistling whiff!
A nature’s bounty, a pamphlet of picturesque hamlets’ terrains of aromatic sensuous purity!
Blessed are they, who have witnessed the once in a lifetime scene of crystal clean roaring rivulets, murmuring brooks, the ravishing orchids, quirky root bridges, aesthetic lakes and rills, scented wild flowers, encompassing the enigmatic cherry blooms of the mystic land of the majestic mountains!
An euphoria to have a ride amidst the clouds of the misty moorlands,
gliding languidly to take the signature of the mementos of the moments;
to kiss the plateau of wild orchids, flowering Cherries and sacred woodlands of those Khasi hills,
crackling with the sprouting, cherry blossom festival of the far East!
A swallow swoops for flitting flies
While Johnny rubs exhausted eyes
(As morning clasps the rising sun)
Confirming Captain’s day’s begun:
Slow streams emerge from melting snows -
The Merchant Ship’s in stark repose...
As Johnny frets with tingling tongue
A Vulture fleeces fields far-flung
(Beneath a bleeding sun above),
And Captain culls the dead with love:
Yes, while the silent water flows,
The Merchant Ship just gulps and grows...
A serpent weaves amongst the weeds
As Johnny dares audacious deeds
(When evening drains the dying day)
To stop the Captain, come what may:
And while the raging rivers grow
The Merchant Ship rocks to and fro...
An owl, a’ branch, has teacup eyes
That glimmer dark as Johnny dies
(Now sown inside the future’s womb)
When flushing Captain to his doom:
Trapped in titanic undertow
The Merchant Ship’s swept down below...
A fledgling bird sprays morning dew
As Johnny Junior’s born anew
(He’s baptised in the dawn ablaze)
To rectify the former days:
Raw rills arise from melting snow
And virgin rivers start to flow...
Far across the hills and dales,
Ringing o'er the rills and swales:
Ever nearer, ever louder;
Ever dearer, gaining power.
Drawing hearts and minds to one;
Once sounded out, and once begun
Men cannot fail to hear her calling-
Solders freed from fear of falling.
Calling, crying to her sons,
"All must fight till freedom's won."
Leading them to victory;
Leaving them with liberty.
(Written on the fifth of July, 2015)
The more mature ladies sit aside
Engrossed in conversing
Contented in perusing dance
Some their feet rehearsing
Such a seat up high with a view
Alone upon the hill
Longing once again to dance
And tap out those fancy rills
In a plain Calico day dress,
A coat once rich now worn
Dreaming of spring, as peach dress swings
A spring day newly born
Different shades of springs clear blue sky
White apple blossom gown
Spring green decorations line hall
Peach blossom dress the crown
Off in the distance, the sound of the train
The whistle announces
It has stopped here in this young town
From train master bounces
There's a package over his shoulder
Sealed in a fancy bag
He mounts his horse that is waiting
Behind he did not lag
The lady that sits high on hill
In a gazebo hoping
Unaware that riders from town
Approach as she's coping
He tells her of observations
Of her strong courage
In the bag he brought a gown
One that matched her virtue
The belle of the cotillon ball
Dressed in emeral green
A velvet dress made just for her
One fit for a great queen
Inspired by
Isaiah Zerbst's
Contest: Ballroom Delights
From the painting by: Victor Gabriel Gilbert
Written: Over several days in November 2014
I awake to find you once again
Setting fire to the leaves
Multi-colored flames in rain
I watch them falling from the trees
To fly upon an ever-changing breeze
You scorch the valleys and the hills
And turn their green to gold
And paint yourself upon the rills
That run from times of old
On water black as coal
I watch in awe, before my eyes
The magic you unfold
Forgetting for a moment, Summer died
As you steal my heart and soul
With the vision that these old eyes now behold